


A Symphony of Thanks

by johnlockhedgehog149



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Johnlock Fluff, Let's pretend the Brits celebrate thanksgiving for a fic, M/M, My First Fanfic, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-27
Updated: 2014-01-27
Packaged: 2018-01-10 05:02:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1155402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/johnlockhedgehog149/pseuds/johnlockhedgehog149
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was the worst Thanksgiving John had ever experienced, until it became the best. (I know our favorite consulting detective and blogger don't celebrate Thanksgiving, but just pretend they do for this fic.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Symphony of Thanks

**Author's Note:**

> (I know our favorite consulting detective and blogger don't celebrate Thanksgiving, but just pretend they do for this fic.) Please enjoy my first fic ever!!!!

A Symphony in Thanks  
I know our favorite consulting detective and army doctor-turned blogger don’t celebrate Thanksgiving. Just pretend they do for the purpose of this fic ☺

This was the worst Thanksgiving John Watson had experienced in all his life – and he had spent the last two in Afghanistan. He had been so happy when Sarah had asked him to come have Thanksgiving dinner with her family. Even though they had only been dating a little while – if you can count almost being killed Chinese gangsters “dating”- John genuinely liked Sarah. She was nice, and pretty. He knew he should be able to come up with better words than nice and pretty to describe his potential love interest. Heaven knows, he has come up with plenty of descriptive vocabulary to describe Sherlock when writing about him in blog posts, but that is just because the man is so utterly unique and fascinating in every possible way.  
The evening had started out well – perfect in fact. Sarah’s family seemed to really like him, and a lovely feast was just being laid out on the table when everything went wrong.

“So you still are living with that Sherlock bloke,” Sarah’s father asked, his disdain towards John’s flatmate evident in his tone of voice.

“Yes. We solve crimes together. Well- he solves them and I write about them in my blog.”

“How can you even stand that? I’ve heard that he’s a terrible person to be around.” John couldn’t keep back a slight grimace at the remark. Sherlock could be harsh and uncaring at times, but he didn’t deserve to be described as terrible.

“I couldn’t do what John does – putting up with someone who doesn’t have feelings.” John visibly tensed when the words came out of Sarah’s mouth. She had met Sherlock – how could she say he didn’t have feelings? John couldn’t come up with a response, as a protective anger began to simmer in the pit of his stomach.

“Well, I saw his website, The Science of Deduction, and I am positive it’s all just a big hoax. Just looking for attention.”

“Sherlock is not a hoax!” John said a bit louder than he had intended, feeling his anger heat up into a boil.

“We were talking about it before you arrived, and we just can’t see how it is possible for anyone to be able to make all these grand “deductions” as he calls them from such tiny details.”

“WELL THAT’S BECAUSE YOU ALL ARE IDIOTS!” John hadn’t meant to say that out loud, or to shout it so loudly. Before he could reassure Sarah’s family that practically everyone was an idiot, he found himself alone on the front porch with only a slammed door in his face to be thankful for, and a long, cold walk home to savor the taste of.

That was an hour ago, and he was only now unlocking the front door of 221B Baker Street - cold, hungry, and alone on a holiday that is meant to be filled with warmth, food, and togetherness.

John began to ascend the stairs to the flat when a beautiful sound stopped him in his tracks. It was the violin, being softly played upstairs. Sherlock. But it couldn’t be. Sherlock was having Thanksgiving dinner with Mycroft and the extended Holmes family. The violin sang a soft, haunting melody that was heart-wrenching and beautiful at the same time, filled with longing, sadness, and love. The mournfully worshipful music sank straight to John’s heart, and he couldn’t help the strange feeling in his soul that the song belonged to him in some way.

John slowly made his way up the stairs, transfixed with the sound, which grew louder as he came closer to the flat. It filled his cold body with warmth and peace, while leaving his very being feeling as if it was missing something. John felt as if his heart had been ripped from him when the music suddenly stopped. He made his way up the rest of the stairs and went into the flat.

Sherlock was sitting in his chair, staring out the window while petting his violin as if it was a creature that needed calming.  
“You’re back early.” Sherlock said without turning his gaze from the window.

“Didn’t work out too well for me.” John took off his coat and sat down in his chair opposite Sherlock. “I thought you were having dinner with Mycroft.”

“I never have dinner with Mycroft.”

“Then why did you tell me that was what you were doing?”

Sherlock stared at the floor for a moment before replying. “I didn’t want you to feel bad that I was on my own. I thought knowing would ruin your Thanksgiving with Sarah.” John felt a pain in his heart. “Sherlock, no one should be alone on Thanksgiving. You could have come with me.”

“I would have messed things up. “

“I did a fine job of that all by myself,” John said with a sad sort of chuckle. They sat for a moment in silence before John got up and headed toward the kitchen. A few minutes later he returned with two cups of tea, and handed one to Sherlock.

“Was that you playing the violin?” John asked as he sat down. A quick worried, vulnerable look flashed over Sherlock’s face before he coldly replied, “Obviously it was me. I am the only person on this block who owns a violin, not to mention is capable of playing one.” This very Sherlock response didn’t phase John for a moment. “What was that you were playing Sherlock?”

Sherlock suddenly looked flustered, looking at John with a strange uncertainty in his eyes. “It was… an original composition.”

“It was the most beautiful thing I have ever heard.” Sherlock looked at John with an expression of awe, as if he had just discovered to meaning of life. After a long moment, he took a breath and softly replied “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

“Would you be willing to play the rest of it?”

Sherlock looked down at his violin as if it was an alien object he had never seen before, and looked back at John. Without breaking eye contact, he slowly brought the instrument up to his chin and placed the bow on the strings. John nodded, and Sherlock closed his eyes and began to play.

For the rest of his life, John Watson would never forget this moment of his life. John was lost in the music, feeling it the melody wrap around his heart and cradle it in color. What was once a painful, lonely night became a symphony of beauty and perfection, all because of that one violin, that one man. And John was thankful. Thankful for Sherlock, his one true friend, the man who gave his wounded soul a home, a life, and an adventure like none he had ever dreamed of. John was thankful for every moment of his life, good and bad, because they led up to this one, him watching and listening to the most intelligent, amazing, beautiful man in the world pour his heart into a song just for John to hear. And anyone who thought Sherlock didn’t have feelings truly was an idiot, because here they were, dancing in the musical notes for John to see. Only for John to see, speaking to him and him alone.

Slowly the piece ended, the last note ringing out, sending a wonderful feeling of peace to John’s body and soul. Sherlock lowered his violin and opened his eyes, looking to John.

“What were you thinking about when you wrote that?” John regretted the question the second he said it, because it was so deeply personal. Sherlock looked down at his violin and replied, just a whisper.

“I was thinking about how thankful I am for you.”

It took less than a heartbeat after those words were spoken for John Watson to pull Sherlock Holmes into the most breathtaking kiss either had ever experienced, and suddenly everything was right in every way. When they came apart, as he brushed a stray raven-black hair back into place and stared into blue eyes filled with golden speckles, John Watson realized that he was an idiot, because all he needed to be thankful for was right in front of him all along, and he had been too stupid to see it.

From that day forward, the song, which Sherlock playfully named “Thanks Be To Watson”, was a Thanksgiving (and any night John wanted to hear it) tradition, reminding the men that they had plenty to be thankful for as long as they had each other, and that neither would ever spend Thanksgiving alone again, all because of the best Thanksgiving John Watson had ever experienced in all his life.


End file.
